I Keep On Forgetting Myself
by also known as LuLu
Summary: As two newsies learn, sometimes there are demons love can't overcome. Slash of an unlikely pairing (Jack/Crutchy). *Revamped, re-edited, includes new passages* :D


**Disclaimer:** Disney owns Newsies. Third Eye Blind owns the title, a song lyric. I own the words.

**Author's Notes:** The first Jack/Crutchy pairing. When I do slash, I have to justify the pairing to myself first; this is just that kind of justification, and it fits in with the movie storyline, too! D I did this story for two reasons, originally -- I took something Wu said the wrong way, so the story is really for her, and, quite frankly, Crutchy needed to get some; he always gets gypped in fanfiction. This is my third edit/revision since writing this. Why? Because I'm a perfectionist at times, and because I consider this one of the better things I've written, so I'm constantly making strides towards making it the best it can be. With that in mind, please review! Some day I'll do a big overhaul in which I change Crutchy's last name to his actual last name, Morris. Til that day comes, just pretend the name I chose is good ^_^ Enjoy!

I Keep On Forgetting Myself by LuLu 

It's the human condition that breaks us apart/Everybody's got a story that could break your heart – Amanda Marshall

April 1899. Spring that year came in warm and complacent after an extended, snow-ridden winter, where the constant downfall of white threatened the workings of the city and the lifeblood of her working boys, who had ended up snowbound on more than one occasion over the frigid months. The newsies had celebrated after the last pallid storm occurred, their voices rising to the sky with the declaration of headlines, giving their labor an eager enthusiasm it had not received since the first flakes had fallen from the sky in late November. Even the most patient had been counting the days for winter to go into hibernation and spring to emerge. James Crutchfield, "Crutchy" for short, had never been one to keep track of time, but he had been as impatient as the rest for the first rays of genuine sunshine to stream through the windows of the Newsboys Lodging House, beams of light with no chance of fleeing back behind cloud cover after only one or two hours of gleaming on freshly-fallen snow. Sunlight and spring were symbolic of rebirth, of new opportunities, of a freedom that had been denied during the dead of winter. The arrival of one special person would change James's view on time, life, and change forever.

"_Crutchy_!!" Mush Meyers rushed into the bunkroom two and a half weeks after the first official day of spring, calling his friend's name. If the untrained eye didn't know any better, one could say he had a spring in his step, a possible side-effect of the influence spring had had on the boys. "Crutchy! You'll nevah believe who's heah!"

"Who, Mush?" Crutchy asked, grinning. With Mush, it wasn't always a case of surprise; it was usually a statement of the obvious.

"The hero of th' Refuge himself!"

Crutchy looked at him in silence for a moment, letting the wheels in his head turn so that this statement could register correctly, to make sure he had not heard the boy wrong. The emotion that resulted on his face was one of authentic surprise, yet still tinged with a slight trace of doubt. "Not the one who escaped on ol' Roosevelt's carriage, is it?"

"One an' the same!" Mush crowed. "He's signin' in wit Kloppman!"

_This_ he had to see. The Great Cowboy himself, signing in the newsies' book? This wasn't the place for an autograph session, even if this was indeed the boy who had pulled off the greatest escape in the history of the working boys of New York, whose story Crutchy was sure he himself and his fellow newsies would be sharing with their children someday, perhaps as they were being tucked into bed, or maybe on a summer's day as they sat outside, escaping their home's smothering internal heat. In the minds of boys on the verge of manhood, the Cowboy's escape was a defining event, showing that even though authority tried to bind them, they were now gaining the strength and power to break free. "The Cowboy."  It was almost unreal sounding, like the name of a dime-novel hero. But this boy was indeed real, and by signing in Kloppman's book, he was becoming one of them: a newsie. For one with such an accomplishment on his back, it was one of the last things the other boys could have expected. Yet it showed that stories of escape did not put food in one's belly, and the Cowboy was as human as any other boy in the Lodging House, with his own need to live and support himself.

Crutchy rose and promptly made his way through the bunkroom door to the Lodging House's entrance hall, packed with his fellow newsies, all chattering and gathered around a head of disheveled brown hair. His face was hidden from Crutchy's view by the other boys. But Kloppman saw him from over his position at the desk and waved to him, a signal for him to push past the other boys and approach without a hassle.

"Crutchy!" he exclaimed, laughing. "I want ya to meet Jack Kelly."

The Cowboy Jack Kelly – now a boy not just known by legend, but a name as well -- turned to face the person his new friend had just pointed out. By the sound of it, Jack assumed that "Crutchy" would be a crippled boy who needed assistance getting around the Lodging House and the streets of New York, certainly not a person who would go out of their way to get into any particular trouble. But he was surprised by the tall, lean boy who met his gaze, at fifteen years old, with a head of curly hair and no handicap in sight. Perhaps the name did not always fit the person, though Mush's face always looked the color of oatmeal, though Kid Blink was indeed missing an eye, though Cowboy himself had Western dreams embodied in the hat that never left his possession. He had removed the hat for his entrance, allowing it to fall off his head, the cords holding it in place behind his neck. Entering the Lodging House was not like entering a sacred temple, but it was possibly like a shrine to the boys who lived here, as it was one of the few places they would be taken in with open arms and without trouble. Maybe it was appropriate that Jack had removed his hat -- this was one of the last chances he had to find a place to stay, so he indeed owed some kind of reverence to it. He smiled at the boy whose name betrayed his actual self.

"Nice ta meetcha," Crutchy greeted, presenting a warm smile in return. "I don't t'ink any of us evah expected someone like youse ta come heah."

"'Like me'?" Jack questioned.

"A legend," noted Kid Blink. "Not just a story."

"I'se not a legend," Jack said. "Just the new guy."

"At least youse ain't got an ego," remarked Racetrack, and then continued jokingly, "If ya did, you'd be shippin' out by now."

Jack observed the other boys all laugh at the Italian boy, noticing that they did not laugh because it was genuinely funny, but the had a delivery to his comments that seemed to demand laughter. Crutchy laughed along with them, but his laughter was louder than the others; it was far from melodic, but it dripped of honesty. It was obvious that he could not betray anyone through his laugh. 

"Don't worry, we'se'll show ya da ropes," promised Snoddy.

"Or, at least, one of us will," said Crutchy, not knowing that tomorrow it would indeed be him who would take Jack on his first day of carrying the banner.

"So, Cowboy," said Dutchy casually, leaning back on the front counter, "if yer up to it, tell us about how youse escaped the Refuge?"

The audience of newsboys showed their assent with nods and vocal agreement. Jack broke into a smile as he opened his mouth. He was never one to turn down a performance.

"Well, it's like dis," he began, "I was out on the streets one day, feelin' like I hadn't eaten in weeks…"

The other boys nodded their heads in sympathy as he continued, Jack growing more energetic and vivid as his story went on and became more and more exciting, right up to the visit of Teddy Roosevelt and the gift he had made of himself by slipping underneath his carriage…

Maybe this life as a newsie wouldn't be so bad, he decided.

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"So, why do dey call ya 'Crutchy'?" asked Jack. "You don't look like a gimp."

It was a week later. Jack and Crutchy were sitting in a booth at Tibby's, with nothing in front of them but each other. They had been thrown together with a combined skill in paper selling -- Crutchy's experience, and Jack's knowledge of the people -- that, by their standards, was a perfect recipe for success in the world Pulitzer and Hearst had created with a flurry of printing presses and newsprint. 

"'Cause of me last name…" Crutchy explained. "It's Crutchfield. Dat's too strange of a name ta be a newsie name, so ev'ryone just shortened it."

"What's yer foist name?"  
"James."

"Anyone evah called ya dat?"  
Crutchy shook his head. 

"Not parents or anythin' like dat. I'se an orphan."

There had been many nights where Crutchy had recounted his childhood in his mind, a childhood of dirty strays, where children were referred to and treated as if they were cats. The other boys and girls he grew up with didn't live in constant hope and subsequent letdown when it came to finding a parent; they knew that not enough people in the city had the space, money, or even love to support a child like them. But growing up an orphan, though it had deprived him of parental love, had given him useful skills –resourcefulness, a sense of humor, and an appreciation for even the littlest things given. These were things Crutchy did not have to share with those around him; they could see that he valued everything he had in the way he approached the world, taking everything with a smile.

"You got parents?" he asked Jack curiously.

"Just me faddah," Jack told him. "In prison."

Jack Kelly had no legitimate, documented past, but Francis Sullivan's family was your normal downtown sob story. He had been born into a poor family where the father drank too much and all the mother could do was stand by while the man she had convinced herself she loved beat her son every night he came home just sober enough to continue standing. His mother died during the birth of a sibling that came out blue; Francis hadn't even learned if he would have had a younger sister or brother, both were buried so quickly. After the death of his mother, the income she had brought in as a washerwoman stopped. This, combined with the money Francis's father spent on alcohol, caused them to start coming up short in the monthly rent for their tenement. Francis's father took up the career as a thief to make amends, and he was actually doing quite well until he was caught. Jack had been incriminated in the thieving as well, for it had been his job to pilfer the food they ate each night, convinced by the father he both loved and feared that this was the only way to make ends meet. Because of Jack's age, though, he had not been placed in the penitentiary like his father. Instead, he was sent to the Refuge under Warden Snyder, where he took the alias of Jack Kelly and, according to the rest of the marveling young male world, the rest was history.

"Dat's too bad," commented Crutchy. "Is 'e gonna be out anytime soon?"

"Don't t'ink so. Not dat it matters ta me or anythin'." 

Jack shrugged his shoulders and looked though the window of Tibby's, his eyes resting on the sun as it slowly crept across the sky. Perhaps, concerning the possibility of future inquiries, he'd make up a story. A true past for Jack Kelly. In this one, his parents would both be alive, and maybe he'd have a little brother too. They wouldn't be living in a tenement, waiting for him to bring back daily wages to help them get by. His family would be out West. On a ranch. Yes, that was it. And the ranch wouldn't be just anywhere. It would be in Santa Fe. That way, he could be a real Cowboy, and a real Jack Kelly, not just a name he had stolen from a newspaper…

"Jack?" asked Crutchy, noticing his friend's mind had left the jurisdiction. 

"Hn? Sorry," he said as he snapped back to attention. "We should be gettin' back, I t'ink,".

"It's still early," Crutchy observed.

"Yeah, but ya nevah know," he replied lamely, rising from the table. "Stuff could happen."  
"What kind of stuff?" asked Crutchy as they exited the restaurant and made their way into the street.

"I dunno…" He shrugged. "Stuff. All kinds of stuff. Any kind of stuff. Stuff!"

"Jack, I t'ink youse avoidin' somethin'…

"An' if I am?" Jack ducked into an alley a few blocks away from the Lodging House. Crutchy followed him, persistent, wanting just to get an answer.

"Den I'll make ya tell me."

Jack _was_ indeed avoiding something. It wasn't the idea of his father; he didn't mind talking about his father. His father was an inmate at the penitentiary, and nothing more. He hadn't even ever exhibited paternal feelings towards him, only malice and manipulation. So, discussing his father was not the problem. And now, he even had a story for the future. The problem was that he felt too close to this other boy, letting words slip too freely. He had never done that before. Jack Kelly was a shield, impenetrable, especially by newsies he had only met less than two weeks before. He couldn't let himself be infiltrated by a newsboy, especially this newsboy, the one that stirred feelings in him that he hadn't felt before. Feelings that could be dangerous. Feelings that could be…

But then he decided, oh, the hell with it. The hell with all of it. The roundabout discussion in his mind was getting ridiculous. If he liked the result of these feelings, he liked them. If he didn't, he didn't. There was only one way to find out.

"Crutchy?" he asked, running an anxious hand through his hair.

"Yeah, Jack?"

He said nothing more, only pushed Crutchy against the wall of the alley and kissed him.

Kissing him? Crutchy's eyes widened. Yes, that was right. Jack was kissing him! This was unreal, Crutchy thought. Jack was a boy. _He_ was a boy. In the back of his mind, though, the thought nagged at him -- he had never been kissed before. He was always the kind of guy no one ever thought would get paired up with a girl, with his big, stuck-out ears, curly hair, and thin, gangly figure. Maybe he wasn't meant to find a girl of his own. But with Jack's lips on his, he realized that maybe that wouldn't be so bad.

Reluctantly, Crutchy broke the liplock. "What'd we just do?" Crutchy asked Jack.

"Well…" Jack smirked impishly. The tone of Crutchy's voice was not of disgust as he expected it would have been, but uncertainty with a touch of curiosity. "I'd say I just kissed youse, and if I know the behaviah of me own lips, I'd say youse was kissin' back."

"Are boys supposed ta do dis?"

"Dey can if dey want to."

"Good, 'cause I wants to."

This time, Crutchy was the one to lean in and capture his lips in the other's. This time, the kiss was more willing, more confident, more intense, and Jack was more than willing to reciprocate. After what seemed like an infinity of seconds, they had to break away to take in mouthfuls of air. More expert in the kisses themselves, yes, but still not experienced in the act of breathing.

"You know what, Jack?" said Crutchy, absentmindedly tugging a curl out of his face.

"What, Crutch?"

"I can't even remembah what we was tawkin' 'bout."

Jack smiled. "Don't worry about it," he said, leaning in to kiss him again. "I can't eithah."

It seemed Jack hadn't made such a terrible decision after all.

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Early May 1899. A late night out at Irving Hall brought out the animal instinct in men and boys alike. Jack and Crutchy had spent the night watching Medda's latest show and conversing with her and her fellow performers afterwards. They were a fun group, but the young ladies who worked with her were a little too fond of Jack and Crutchy and spent most of the night flirting with them, or, at the very least, trying to. To be good sports, they played along, but they broke out laughing as soon as they were a good distance away from the theater. They participated in good-natured conversation on the way home for sake of showing any streetwalkers they may have come across on their way home, but as soon as they were within safe distance of the Lodging House, Crutchy grabbed Jack by the shirt and kissed him forcefully.

"I'se been wantin' ta do dat all night," he groaned.

"You t'ink youse had it rough?" asked Jack. "Dose goils threw more sexual insinuations at me in one night dan we'se thrown at each udder in foah weeks."

"Youse suggestin' somethin'?" Crutchy demanded playfully, pulling his body close to Jack's and draping his arms around his neck as they leaned against the building.

"I may not like goils dat way, but I ain't immune ta deir woids, and dey had some pretty good suggestions."

"You wants ta try 'em out?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Jack lifted Crutchy's legs up over his hips, letting the wall of the building be their extra support. He trailed kisses along his jawbone and to his neck.

"Christ, Jack," moaned Crutchy, pressing his hips into Jack's. "Don't you dare be teasin' me tanight."

"It's always teasin' unless we want ta go in a back alley or somethin' like dat," Jack reminded him.

"I ain't goin' in a back alley fer dis," Crutchy said firmly. Jack thought that was the end of the discussion until he added sneakily to his statement, "…especially now."

"What're youse suggestin'?" Jack asked.  
"I'se suggestin' we go inside and make love like normal people."

"You know we can't do dat," Jack said, his breath warm and voice husky in Crutchy's ear. "Dere's no way ta pull dis off."  
Crutchy gave him a smirk. "Why's dat?"

"We can't be doin' dis kinda t'ing in the bunkroom. Everyone'd wake up with the noise we'd make."

"Kloppman's always got a spare place…" Crutchy revealed, playing with a few stray strands of Jack's hair. "It's undah the stairs. Just a bed an' a blanket, but it's enough."

"Yeah," agreed Jack almost immediately. "More dan enough."

Crutchy laughed and led Jack into the Lodging House doorway by the wrist. "C'mon."

They slipped off their shoes as they went into the entrance hall, cautiously checking for the presence of any newsboy. Kloppman, it seemed from the empty desk, had gone to bed for the night, impatient with waiting for the stragglers. Good. Crutchy crossed the room and jiggled the knob of the doorway that led to the room underneath the stairs. It was open. Double good. And unoccupied. Triple good.

"After you, Jack," he said, opening the door; Jack entered. Crutchy had been right, it was very simple. The bed was simply a white mattress on four thin legs not very far from the room's hardwood floor, and the blanket Crutchy had mentioned was no longer present. Well, the mattress wouldn't be white anymore after that night, Jack decided, and all they needed was each other to keep warm. As he worked the buttons on his shirt, Crutchy gave the entrance hall one last steady look before ducking his head in and shutting the door. Jack immediately pounced on him, his hands animated as they traced their way up and down his body, finally stopping to fumble with the half-undone buttons of Crutchy's shirt.

"How we decidin'?" Crutchy inquired, trying to hold Jack at arm's length while the other boy continued to focus on removing their clothing.

"Decidin' what?" asked Jack through half-lidded eyes, moving to kiss Crutchy again. He took advantage of the other boy's open mouth and slipped his tongue in. Crutchy bit it lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to show that he wanted to take care of this matter before they got too lost in the moment and each other.

"Who's on top and who's on da bottom," he told him.

"Take toins?" Jack suggested eagerly.

"I know it's hard, but be serious, Jack."

"What do _you _wanna do?"

"I ain't evah done dis befoah," Crutchy admitted.

"I have." When Crutchy arched an eyebrow in surprise, he added, "not a lowt, though."  
"When?"

"In th' Refuge." 

After that statement was spoken, Jack stopped, intentionally neglecting to elaborate. It wasn't the memory that was painful; the physical act itself certainly held more ache than the weight it bore on his soul. But something inside of him couldn't bear telling Crutchy of that first night in the Refuge, where a big, burly, but still boyish thug had made a demand that Jack could not refuse. Jack had no idea what would happen when he allowed his innocence to be taken by that figure his first night, in a dark corner where every whimper he emitted was stopped by a foreign, callused hand clamped tightly over his mouth. In exchange, he was given a fragile state of safety, a freedom from the harassment of other boys as long as he stayed in the Refuge, just as long as he was willing to bend over for the will of his 'protector'. He did not allow the event to scar him; Jack saw himself as stronger than that. It was just an act. A physical act that meant nothing. Sex. Only sex. With Crutchy, it would be something different, he told himself. Something with real feeling and emotion – love, or something like it.

"What were you den?" Crutchy asked, interrupting his memory. An innocent question that held more meaning than it meant to.

"Bottom."

"Be da top dis time, den," he smiled. 

"You shoah?"

"As long as it don't hoit much…"

"Don't worry," Jack assured, slipping his hand down Crutchy's pants. "Pain will be da last thing on yer mind…"

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

It was not sunlight that awoke the two young men the next morning, but the pounding of dozens of feet on the stairway that sheltered them. Crutchy awoke first, at first taken aback by the foreign, earthquake-like sounds coming from above him. It was darker in the room under the stairway than anywhere else in the bunkhouse, the only light coming in as a thin horizontal line at the base of the door that ended up partially obstructed whenever a form walked by. He tried to sit upright, but found himself hindered by a heavy form over his body. Judging by last night's activities, it should have been the other way around, but this conclusion was not important. Crutchy gently pushed at Jack with his free hand; the other, his right, was trapped underneath the other boy's chest, where he could feel a nipple pressing against his knuckle, possibly the same nipple he had – well, nevermind. Crutchy was too modest to consider _all _the details that morning, so soon after the event. He had to absorb the morning after first.

"Jack…?" he whispered, keeping his voice low as not to let the other boys hear who exactly was in the room. He was sure they had noticed that two of the most conspicuous newsies had disappeared for the night, and he merely hoped that they did not conclude that they had indeed disappeared together. 

"Yeah?" Jack's voice was drowsy, his breath warm against Crutchy's neck, where his head lay.

"Youse heavy," the other boy grumbled. "Get off." 

Obediently, Jack slowly and sleepily rolled his naked body off of Crutchy's. He repositioned himself at the other's side, where he could still wrap an arm around Crutchy's waist and hold him tightly, still holding the crucial element of control. Last night had been more than a night of sex for Jack. Subconsciously, it had been his way to overcome his former position as the submissive one, a position that he in turn handed over to Crutchy, but under much gentler, much more loving circumstances.

"Sorry 'bout dat," he mumbled into Crutchy's ear, nipping at the lobe, a sign of his increased awakening. "Guess I shifted durin' the night."

"Shifted's an undastatement. Youse managed ta get yer way all da way opposite."

As he looked back at Jack, Crutchy's eyes landed on his right shoulder, where the imprints of teeth and broken skin left their mark.

"Youse was pretty rough," he noticed.

"I had ta keep mseself from moanin' somehow…" Jack mumbled, kissing the spot lightly. He let one of his hands travel downwards from Crutchy's stomach, blindly searching for what he had held in his hands and mouth the night before.

"Well, whaddaya know," he observed with a smirk as his hands reached the flesh, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. "It's smallah in the mornin'." Crutchy would have changed his position yet again and shoved his lover off the mattress if not for their shared fear of discovery. Instead, he merely said,

"You wasn't complainin' about it last night."

"Nah," Jack admitted, "I wasn't."

"Good," said Crutchy, pulling Jack's hand up and kissing the open palm. "'Cause if you were, I'se have to go tellin' some people about the shawtcomin's of someone _else_ I know…"

"_What_ shortcomings?" Jack demanded, faking offense and insult. 

"Youse was just a liddle quick off the blocks at foist." Crutchy moved to kiss his face. "But you got bettah," he soothed.

Jack rolled his head back, not as an attempt to expose his throat to Crutchy's lips, but as an exaggeration of astonishment.

"I can't believe I'se gettin' dis kinda clout from a voigin!"

"I ain't a voigin anymoah," Crutchy corrected.

"No," Jack relented. "Dat's true." He peeled himself off of the other boy and stood. "But fer dat comment, I'se done fer da night." He reached for his shirt and pants.

"Well, youse no fun," pouted Crutchy, moving onto his stomach. He cupped the side of his face in one hand and watched Jack clothe himself. God, he was so beautiful, his skin smooth and unblemished like that of a statue. He wished he didn't have to cover himself up so soon, and that they could stay in the room for longer. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, years, forever…it didn't matter how long. He just wanted more time to be with Jack like this, intimate for the first of, he hoped, many times.

The footsteps and chatter of the other boys, the pair could hear from outside, was subsiding, being replaced by satisfying silence. Not even Kloppman's voice was audible; he must have left his desk. It seemed the coast was clear.

"It sounds quiet out there," Jack observed in a whisper. "I'se goin' out."

"You shoah?" 

"Yeah, I'se shoah. Ain't gonna get a more poifect opportunity taday." He gave Crutchy a quick kiss. "See ya at the Woild? Twenty minutes?"

"Mm-hmm…" Crutchy agreed, returning the kiss. "Twenty minutes."

As Jack exited the room and slowly closed the door behind him, Crutchy could hear footsteps above him. So much for a perfect opportunity. Who was it that was late today? Who was about to catch them? Jack would have to pull off a miracle to get out of this without suspicion. 

"Jacky-boy!" Crutchy could hear Racetrack's jovial voice from inside the room. Racetrack, of all people. "Where were ya last night?"

Jack shrugged. "Around."

"Wearin' the same clothes?" Racetrack asked. Jack shrugged again, wishing the Italian boy would just stop his interrogation before something bad happened. But from the look on his face, he was drawing his own conclusions about Jack's whereabouts from last night. Crutchy held his breath. "Ah, I'se got it," Racetrack deduced with amusement. "Found a goil ya liked, didncha?"

If Jack could see Crutchy, he would have seen that both boys possessed the same grin on their faces and thought in their heads. This cover-up would be much easier than they thought, with straight boys with raging hormones that possessed thoughts full of girls or even women they could spend their nights with. Straight boys that assumed all boys were straight and a night out of the bunkroom meant a night with a girl. To play along with the charade Racetrack had provided, he noted this dogma of male youth.

"Attaboy!" he exclaimed, clapping Jack on the back. "What's 'er name?"

"James," Jack immediately said, and then immediately cursed himself in his head. Inside the room under the stairs, Crutchy was almost ready to burst out and smack him for his accidental, possibly damaging slip of the tongue. Racetrack arched an eyebrow and gave Jack a curious, confused look.

"James ain't a real common goil's name…"

"She's one in a million, then," Jack told him, forcing a pleasant smile. Inside the room under the stairs, Crutchy stifled a snicker. Now, Jack decided, would be the perfect time to make a getaway before allowing another slip-up to escape his lips. "Listen, Race, I'se gotta get goin'…gotta carry da bannah an' all."

"Carryin' the bannah," Racetrack agreed. As Jack headed for the door, Racetrack called to him. "Hey, Jacky-boy?"  
Jack looked over his shoulder, heart pounding. Was he going to persist in questions about the 'girl'? Or, even worse -- was he going to ask where Crutchy was?  "Y-Yeah, Race?"

"You should bring 'er 'round sometime," Racetrack instructed. "We ain't as pervoited as some of the goils t'ink we are."

Jack barked out a strained laugh. "I'll let 'er know. See ya, Race."  
"See ya, Jacky-boy."

Inside the room, Crutchy silently blessed unisex names, unusual as they were, as he pulled his pants on. He heard one pair of feet exit the Lodging House. He paused in anticipation, waiting for another. Five minutes later, there it was – Racetrack was leaving. Thank God. Slowly, Crutchy cracked the door to make sure the Lodging House was empty. He opened the door all the way and quickly strode shirtless into the bunkroom, where he changed his clothes before heading out the door to meet Jack at the gates of the New York World.

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Late May 1899. Jack and Crutchy, still very much enamored with each other, made an effort to sell together whenever they had the chance. The nights they spent together in the below-stairs room were not as often as they liked, but for the sake of keeping up the charade, they had to keep their lusts to a minimum. Their craving for bodily contact was instead each day satisfied by seemingly innocent touches -- a brushing of hands, a pat on the back, or a touch on the shoulder -- that in reality held a deeper desire than any of the other boys or even Kloppman could have guessed. One of these days, the heat of the approaching summer was growing to the point of agony, a heat paralleled by the want and sheer need of two boys. Jack could barely take it by noontime, when all of the papers were finally sold and the two were on their way back to an empty lodging house, where they did not need the room under the stairs and could make love in a room full of sunlight.

"This is just what I needs aftah a long day…" Jack grinned, closing his eyes and kissing the other boy. They were in an alleyway, a small side trip to exercise emotions before finally entering the Lodging House.

"Yeh know…" mumbled Crutchy into Jack's ear. "You left yer undaweah undah the bed last night…"  

"I _thought_ it felt a liddle drafty down dere today." Both boys laughed loudly. 

"You want some help gettin' 'em back on?" Crutchy asked in a low voice, his dexterous fingers tugging on the waistband of Jack's pants.

"You brought 'em wit ya?" questioned Jack, arching an eyebrow.

"Not exactly…but do I _need_ an excuse ta get into yer pants?"  
Jack smiled broadly and kissed him. "Youse even has ta ask?"

Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice called out,

"Lookit dis, boys!"

Jack and Crutchy froze, their eyes traveling towards the source of the voice but the rest of them unable to move; as a result, their hands stayed upon each other, but they could scarcely sense it. In the entryway of the alley stood three men, older than Crutchy and Jack but still young enough to be considered in their prime, whose broad-shouldered forms blocked out the passage of light. The one in front slinked towards the couple, his movements swift and fluid like that of a cat.

"Well I'll be damned," said one of the two still lingering in the entrance as the front boy plucked Jack off of Crutchy and simply pushed him aside, as if he was a doll. And just like a doll, Jack did nothing to protest. There was a glazed fear in his eyes, his atypical unwillingness to fight back leaving a knot in Crutchy's stomach, a knot that tightened as the brawny boy, the leader of the trio, now focused his attentions toward Crutchy.

"Liddle Frankie's got himself someone of his own…" he observed as he looked Crutchy over. "'E ain't the bitch anymore."

"W-what are you tawkin' about!?" Crutchy managed to stammer. His back was against the alley wall where he and Jack had shared many a kiss, but this was the first time he had ever felt afraid about what would happen to him in this position. This must be a mistake, he decided. He didn't know this person, or who they were talking about. "I don't know no Frankie!"

The other boy leered at him, his face plastered by a smile that was more dread-inducing than lecherous. "It looks like you knows Frankie real well." Over his shoulder, he pointed at Jack. "Or is ol' Francis Sullivan goin' under a new moniker now?"

Francis Sullivan? Crutchy felt the boy's hand on his head, his fingers tugging roughly on his hair. As the name penetrated his mind, the back of his head slammed against the brick. Pained white light flashed in front of eyes, flooding his sight, his skull aching from the impact. The faint, coppery taste of blood tinged his mouth from accidentally biting his tongue. This wasn't a mistake as Crutchy had originally thought; it was an attack. He managed to turn his head enough to gaze at Jack; he was backing away, towards the exit of the alley, though it was unclear whether he was escaping the thugs from his past or the truth that had just been revealed to Crutchy. The boy who had Crutchy against the wall saw Jack's movements from the corner of his eye and emitted a low, angry growl.

"Not so fast, Frankie," he hissed. "I wantcha ta see what I do to da ones who tried an' get away."

Jack froze. "Bars, don't touch him," he sputtered, one of the few times in his life he was taken aback by actual alarm. "If you wants me, then take me."

"It's too easy if I just take what I'se already had." Bars smirked and pointed to one of the boys who had accompanied him. "Rocky, you keep Frankie undah control." He looked back at Crutchy, still backed against the rusty red brick wall of the alley. "Well, well…aintcha gonna say somethin'? At least gimme yer name." Crutchy said nothing, his lips parted enough only that he could breathe; he wasn't sure if he could speak even if he wanted to. "Answer me!" barked Bars, lifting his fist and striking the boy square in the jaw. Crutchy winced and recoiled, letting out a small cry of pain.

"Crutchy!" Jack yelled. "Dammit Bars, let 'im go!" He struggled against Rocky, but he only held Jack with more force, with a tightness past the point of pain. Jack would have done everything in his power to escape if he hadn't known that Rocky wouldn't give a second thought to killing him.

"'Crutchy'?" asked Bars, ignoring Jack's plea. "Funny, ya don't look like a gimp."

Both of the captive boys froze at those words, suddenly stirred by a memory: one had spoken those words and the other had listened barely even a month ago. But then, they had been spoken with friendliness and curiosity, not in the deep, threatening way he heard them now. Crutchy would not allow Bars to slander Jack's words the way he was doing. He managed to gather up enough courage to finally speak.

"I ain't a gimp," Crutchy finally hissed, spitting at Bars. The larger boy looked over at Jack for a moment, who was just as surprised as anyone else in that alley at Crutchy's actions. He then looked back to Crutchy. He wiped the saliva from his cheek with his palm and placed the same hand around Crutchy's neck.

"…You little fuck," he growled. Crutchy gagged at the pressure that was being applied to his throat, struggling for breath. Bars looked over at the last of the burly boys he had brought with him and nodded. He approached Bars and Crutchy. "I wasn't gonna do much ta ya, just rough youse up a little, but now youse ain't given me any udder choice. Frankie deserves ta see the woist happen ta ya."

Crutchy felt the first wave of pain with his terrified eyes fixated on Jack. This pain was concentrated in his legs and sharp, acute, like something inside of him was being shattered. He would have screamed, he would have cried out, he would have made some kind of noise, but he knew the only thing that would have come out his mouth was Jack's name. Jack's eyes were not on Crutchy's face but on the boy he did not recognize, the third, who was winding up to take another swing at Crutchy's legs with the lead pipe he held rigidly in his hands. Rocky's grip on him was too tight for him to move, and he knew if he yelled, one hand would reposition itself onto Jack's mouth. Though less worn and calloused than Bars, it still tasted of grime and dreadful memories. 

The pipe hit again. Jack tried to clench his eyes shut, but Rocky let out a low snigger and used one of his hands to pry one eye open. This was worse than not speaking, he decided. Having to see this done to Crutchy, Crutchy who was innocent and did not know these boys, who had done nothing wrong but love…seeing this done to him was worse than dying a thousand deaths, spending a thousand nights with Bars in that dark corner of the Refuge. Jack saw Crutchy's legs give out beneath him. Bars' grip around his neck was still tight, so tight that he would not allow the boy to fall to the ground. Instead, he looked like a long coat, handing desperately from a hook that refused to let him drop. 

A third time the pipe came into contact with Crutchy's body, hard and fierce. This was the breaking point for him; he choked against Bars' hold before finally crying out in a loud, excruciating scream. If the sound coming out was even a word, it wasn't at all indistinguishable. Seeming satisfied, Bars let him go. Crutchy hit the ground with a thud, again letting out a pained groan as he landed on legs that could no longer provide him support and seemed to crinkle beneath him.

"Lead Pipe," he commanded the boy who had done the deed, "you keep it up fer a few more minutes. Rocky." He looked over at the boy who held Jack. "Let 'im go."

Rocky threw Jack against the alley wall as if he was as light as a piece of discarded paper. His shoulder hit with a thud, and as his momentum caused him to rebound, he stumbled slightly before regaining his balance. Bars approached Jack with the same stalking steps of a cat he had exhibited before.

"Dat's what happens --" Bars began, gripping Jack's shirt in both hands " --when you forget --" He sealed his lips into Jack's, probing his tongue into the other's mouth roughly before releasing him "-- that youse always gonna be _mine_."  He pulled Jack closer, looking directly into his eyes, staring past the fear and reaching where he knew Jack would keep a recollection of this moment. "An' dat's what'll happen when you bring someone else inta yer life like dat." Bars released Jack and pointed to Crutchy's limp body, where Lead Pipe was still going at him, not only using the piece of pipe but kicking at his chest and stomach as well. "Keep it in mind, Frankie," he grinned, and then switched to a low tone for only him to hear. "We _watch_. We _know_. And then we make ya _pay_." His voice now changed to a shout. "Lead Pipe! Let's get goin'. We'se got biggah fish ta fry taday." 

Lead Pipe rose from Crutchy's body, giving him one more hard kick in the ribs for good measure. He tucked his namesake into his back pocket and exited with Bars and Rocky. When Jack was sure that they were indeed gone, he scurried over to Crutchy. His bleeding body lay in a heap in the middle of the alley, one leg jutting out at an abnormal angle.

"Crutchy!" he called out, grabbing his shirt. The boy let out a small groan, his breathing coming in short, labored gasps. "Shit…" he whispered. "I'se sorry, Crutchy, I'se so sorry." What he didn't know was that Crutchy could not hear his words; he had lost consciousness while Bars threatened Jack and Lead Pipe had continued his assault. "I'se'll getcha back…we'll get a doctah for ya."

Jack managed to work Crutchy's body onto his back, and he staggered under the weight towards the exit of the alley. During the time with Bars, Rocky, and Lead Pipe, the sky had changed from clear and bright to become a pallid overcast, and now rain was beginning to fall in miniscule droplets, the only way they were seen being the mark they left where they landed. Jack felt the drops, more foreboding than refreshing, on his head as he entered the street. He could hear Crutchy's warm breath in his ear; he was alive, and that was the best sign. Jack's enemy now was time. He walked unsteadily in the direction of the Lodging House, where security and a saving grace hopefully awaited them.

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Three weeks later, in mid-June, Crutchy awoke from what felt like a very long sleep void of dreams, similar to standing under a starless sky. There was a dull ache in his head that was at first aggravated by the light in the room he was in. He blinked his eyes once, twice, a half a dozen times, feeling like he was relearning the function of his eyes. His surroundings were familiar – the bunkroom, and the feeling below him was that of his own bed. Or perhaps he was in the room under the stairs after a period of frenzied lovemaking with Jack. That would explain the aching in his chest, at least. But if that were true, then why were all the boys standing over him? He blinked again. It wasn't all the boys; only about half a dozen, all holding mixed expressions on their faces.

"KLOPPMAN!" Specs' voice rang out as the only sound in silence. "Crutchy's awake!"

"I-I'se just been asleep," Crutchy croaked in a voice that he did not sound like his own, his throat feeling oddly dry. "What's the big deal?"

"Fer t'ree weeks, youse been asleep!" exclaimed Bumlets.

"I has?"

"Jack broughtcha in all bleedin' an' passed out," Mush told him. "Youse been asleep evah since. We thought you wasn't gonna wake up."

Crutchy felt something squeeze his hand at the word "Jack". He turned his head and saw The Cowboy himself, looking stony and sleep worn. But Jack didn't speak; instead, the next voice he heard was Kloppman's.

"All of youse, out!" the Lodging House manager commanded, his voice still holding a kind air to it despite its urgency. Crutchy sensed Jack's release of his hand, and in reaction he moved his fingers, groping for the touch. Kloppman noticed this as the other boys began to file of the room, and perceived it as brotherly affection.

"Jack, you can stay heah."

Jack nodded his thanks and laced his fingers through Crutchy's again.

"Crutchy, you gave us all a real scare," Kloppman said, taking a seat on the other side of the bed. Crutchy turned his head away from Jack to look at him. "It aint yer fault, though. Jack told us what happened. D'ya remembah?"

He paused to search his thoughts. He remembered three big, burly, unrecognizable men, plucking him off of Jack and throwing him against the wall, of a searing pain in his legs, but not much else. "Bits and pieces…" he told Kloppman.

"The doctah's been visitin' a few times each week…he last came yestaday. Specs is goin' ta get 'im now, but I think you should hear it from me rathah dan him." Kloppman's voice was gentle, almost padded. 

"Is it bad?" Crutchy asked. He glanced at Jack again; his face was expressionless. He knew already; that was the only explanation

"Yeh had some stitches on yer head and a few bruised ribs, but we took care of those right quick. Yer legs are what got da most damage…they healed pretty well considerin' what happened, 'specially the left, but the right…" Kloppman paused, trying to find the easiest way to break the news to him. "It ain't gonna woik as well anymoah."

"Crippled," Crutchy immediately said.

"Crippled," Kloppman confirmed. He looked across the bed at Jack. "I'll let youse tawk to 'im," he said slowly. "Til Doctah Brooks comes. Den youse gotta go."  

Jack nodded slowly as Kloppman rose from his seat and left the bunkroom. For a minute, there was silence, the kind caught halfway between awkward and solemn, where the right words couldn't found, but at the same time it was all right because it seemed it was not the right time for words anyway. Finally, Jack began it by softly stating,

"I'se glad youse awake."

Crutchy said nothing. He concentrated on the feeling of Jack's hand and his, fingers twined together. They had been that way in front of Kloppman, in front of the boys. Did that mean they knew? That it was okay?

"Jack?" he asked.

"Yeah, Crutchy?" 

"Do dey know?"

"Know what?" Jack questioned, perplexed by his inquiry. He didn't quite understand what Crutchy was trying to imply, or, if he was, he was trying to take it another way so the subject could be avoided.

"'Bout us."

"No," Jack told him seriously. "Dey don't."  
"How do dey not know? Youse was holdin' me hand."

The other boy said nothing. He gazed away from Crutchy, over the beds, towards the window. The early summer sun was shining through, traces of clouds impeding select rays. Had spring really been that long ago? Suddenly, Crutchy began to comprehend just was Jack was hinting at. When Kloppman had said Jack had told the story, Jack had told them only that they had been attacked, not _why_. The gestures the boys had seen had been perceived as of close, brotherly friendship, not romantic love.

"Jack…what about us?" he asked.  
"What _about_ us?" 

"Are we still…?"

Again, Jack did not reply. 

"I sees how it is," Crutchy hissed.

"I just don't t'ink it's good fer us to be togetha anymore," Jack offered feebly.  
"'Cause I'se a crip now?"

"It ain't dat!" he exclaimed, almost severe in his tone. "Don't evah t'ink it's dat! Dose boys dat did dis to ya…dey ain't gonna give up if dey know we'se still wit each udder."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Dey know me and dey ain't gonna let me carry on wit any guy, includin' an' especially you." Crutchy still looked at him, his face a puzzle of bewilderment. Jack sighed, knowing that putting the pieces together would be difficult. "I guess dis is the only way I can do it…" He slowly let out the story of Bars and the Refuge.

"Jack," Crutchy initiated when he was finished, in a voice of soft concern, "I didn't --"

"--I'se put it behind me now! Dey haven't."

"So dey punished me for yer sins…." Crutchy said slowly and softly, feeling he was beginning to understand.

"I'se sorry. You don't have no idea how sorry I is, Crutchy."

"It's alright, Jack. I undastand."

"You do?" Jack blinked.

"I mean…how do I say it…didja evah t'ink we wasn't meant ta do dis?"

"Whaddya mean?" Jack wasn't used to Crutchy switching subjects suddenly like this. Perhaps it was a side effect of Bars hitting his head so hard and the unconsciousness it had caused.

"Like we'se just pawns in some game. Maybe we'se just bein' played wit."

"If dat was true, I'd be back in da Refuge by now," Jack rebutted.

"If it woin't true, I'd still have both me legs woikin'."

"Crutchy…"

"Y'know the nuns dat feed us every mornin'?" Jack nodded, unwilling to interrupt the other boy's speech now that he seemed to be well-positioned on his new thread. "It's like dey always say: everythin' comes back to ya. Divine retribution. So, we'se just bein' punished fer our sins."

"Crutchy…it ain't like dat. You shouldn't t'ink dat it's like dat."

"How do you know dat fer shoah?"

"I don't," Jack admitted. "But I know it wasn't eithah of our sins dat did dis." Daringly, he leaned over and kissed Crutchy's forehead.

"Don't do dat if ya don't mean it," Crutchy warned.

Jack was about to reply, but a knock on the doorframe interrupted his speech.

"Knock, knock," announced the tall, well-groomed, smiling man standing in the doorway. "Glad to see you're finally awake." He proceeded to enter the bunkroom.

"Thanks, doctah…doctah…" Crutchy managed to say, fumbling for the name to finish his sentence with.

"Doctor Brooks," he smiled. Doctor Brooks looked at Jack kindly. "No more visitors, please."

Jack nodded; giving Crutchy's hand one more squeeze, he released it and stood, backing away from the bed.

"You know," Doctor Brooks told Crutchy as Jack started towards the door, "that boy never left your side once while you were in your coma. I'm glad you've got a friend like that."

"Yeah…I'se real lucky."  
After hearing Crutchy say that, Jack left the doorway where he had been standing, letting Doctor Brooks take over speech. He didn't need to be involved in this anymore.

"To begin our prime concern, the matter of mobilization…when you get back on your feet, I think the possibility of a crutch would be best for you to walk with…"

At that moment, in Crutchy's world time began again, and the days flew by once more, almost as if Jack had never had an affect on them.

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Tonight, Jack Kelly is back where he started in the Refuge, under the careful watch of Warden Snyder and the covering of night, whose promise to the Warden of not letting this boy escape again is determined to be kept. This time, the night will not be swayed by the bedside promises of a young man whose claims to immortality had been proven false after his first escaping. The night is wiser now. Everyone is wiser now – including Jack, including Crutchy, even the new, idealistic boy who was at one time Jack's speech but is now closer than ever to finding his own voice. But Crutchy is still here, trying to lift Jack's spirits. Tonight, two familiar faces meet through a slot in Jack's cell door.

"You can't let 'em get you," Crutchy tells him reassuringly. He has snitched a potato for Jack off the Warden's plate for Jack to consume, something to show that though they will never be what they were, they are still comrades, again with a common thread of fate.

"We was beat when we was born," Jack says in return, despondent at his defeat as a leader and as an individual.

Frowning, Crutchy closes the slot, understanding that what Jack needs now is time to think. On the other side of the door, the once unbeaten Cowboy is staring into the flickering, erratic flame of a candle, considering first his future options before going back to his much more dominant past, a whirlwind of lies and anguish. 

"Santa Fe, wait for me," Crutchy hears from the slot. 

But Santa Fe is a faraway dream for Cowboy Jack Kelly, a diversionary escape he knows he will never make his way to. It is only an idea, an unreachable dream of warmly painted sunsets splashed across the canvas of his mind, something conceived but never executed. He has told the boys that as soon as he earns enough for his train ticket, he'll be gone, his existence verified only by whispering winds that whisk through the streets of New York when the season is right. 

He has no intention to make good with this promise; he feels an obligation, not to the other boys, not to David or his pretty sister, but to himself and to Crutchy. Jack blames himself even now for Crutchy's plight. It is easily seen in the way he defends the boy, the way his voice travels over the name, the way his face freezes in thought at the mere sound of it. They have been tied together only by a single springtime and early summer, but the ties are tight. So tight that even now Jack forgets himself for Crutchy's sake. These threads of fate are so binding that there is never an escape, never a resolution. They continue in the same life, though they will never be united as they were before.

'Beat was when was born'…not exactly. But there are some demons not even love can overcome. As a reminder, they must now sleep and arise the next morning to face the challenges of each passing day.


End file.
